


mayn rue plats

by r_foudroye



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, Jewish Character, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Seine, like im not kidding this is straight-up angst, sort of ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_foudroye/pseuds/r_foudroye
Summary: The wild grasses rippled like waves, Javert knew, not far from here.He carried Valjean into his apartments.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	mayn rue plats

**Author's Note:**

> i'm.,.,, so sorry about this?
> 
> (also this was originally for the same-prompt fic challenge but i'm impatient)
> 
> any lyrics/verse are taken from " _mayn rue plats_ " by morris rosenfeld

When Javert found him, Valjean was halfway dead.  
He was collapsed in an alleyway just outside the market, his hat gone and his cravat askew.  
His face was gaunt and pale. Much of his mass was gone, his clothes hanging loosely off his skeleton.  
When Javert shook him awake, Valjean could barely stand. His hands shook when he stumbled.  
Javert’s brow furrowed. He half-draped Valjean across his shoulders, his chest filling with dread at the ease of it. 

_Don’t look for me where myrtles grow._

Valjean fumbled for his keys until Javert rapped sharply on the door.  
_Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat._  
The portress opened the door, took one look at them, and paled. 

_You will not find me there, my dear._

Somewhere in the countryside, the wind carried a swallow to its death among the fields.  
The wild grasses rippled like waves, Javert knew, not far from here.  
He carried Valjean into his apartments.

Valjean let himself be stripped of his coat, his shoes. He let himself be lowered onto the bed. He let Javert bring water to his lips, let him brush the hair from his brow. 

He let Javert bring him broth. He let Javert bring a damp cloth to his forehead when he woke shaking with a fever and a memory. He let Javert sit in the old armchair and tell stories of cases.  
Sometimes Javert would tell stories about songs and pasts and his _sinagoga_ insisting he at least wear a hat for Purim.  
Sometimes Valjean would chuckle weakly. Sometimes, when he did, Javert would give a start and press his hand and stare with a sort of desperation in his eyes. 

The first time Valjean walked to the armchair on his own, Javert lowered his head and said a shehecheyanu. 

Cosette visited, at Javert’s insistence, the second week of it. 

_Where lives wither by machinery,_

Valjean let Javert wash his hair and tie his cravat. Valjean trembled with shame and sorrow. 

Cosette cried and threw her arms around Valjean, when she first saw him. There she stayed, in her papa’s arms, sitting half on his lap in the armchair as a child would, as Javert spoke of all Valjean’s life; all his deeds, every crime and every miracle.  
The bread, the child, his request for dismissal.  
Arras.  
The barricades, the river.  
Valjean’s shoulders shook.  
All his sainthood, all his sins. Every transgression and every infuriating kindness, Javert laid bare for them.  
Cosette sobbed into Valjean’s shirt as he begged her forgiveness.  
She left with the promise to return again. 

Two days later, Valjean collapsed. 

Javert did not sleep for three nights. 

On the eighteenth night since the marketplace, Valjean awoke with a stuttering gasp and a grin on his lips. 

\- _Javert- Javert do you hear it?_

Javert did not. 

\- _Listen- the wind is laughing! It is laughing at us..._

But such wind did not exist in Paris, and Javert once more sat vigil at his armchair.  
And Valjean slipped again into a feverish sleep.  
Javert prayed all night.  
He prayed to the G-d he had barely believed in and did not care about the hypocrisy of it.  
As long as he lived. _As long as he lived, he would do anything._

Valjean grew increasingly delirious. He would call out in his sleep for his sister and her children; he would catch Javert’s hand and beg him to spare his life.  
He would whisper prayers in his sleep; Javert made out Psalm 105 one morning. 

And Javert sang to him, sometimes, in a voice that had long been unused. He sang of myrtles and oceans and a King looking at the stars. He sang of farmers and goats and markets.  
He did not sing of goodbyes, or of greetings.  
G-d would not grant him the strength to.  
It made him fear what was to come. 

Valjean showed no signs of recovery. Javert prayed more and called a doctor. 

He did not let the doctor move Valjean. He did not let anyone touch Valjean’s shirt. Valjean at least deserved the dignity of that.  
He prayed every waking second that he did not spend worrying or talking to the doctor.   
He made broth for Valjean and gave it to him, relishing in the few moments of clarity he was blessed with. He spent every evening in the armchair, talking about _anything,_ as long as it was not silence. It was a prayer in its own way. He did not go near the Seine.  
Thus was his penance. 

One day, he knelt at Valjean’s bedside, his hands clasped on the bed and his brow upon his hands.  
And softly, as though a dream, a hand found its way onto his head. It moved onto his cheekbone, trailing down to his jaw, lifting his face with the slightest pressure.  
Tears fell onto Javert’s cheeks as he looked up, not daring to hope, praying and yearning and reaching-

And Valjean lay still on the bed. His hand lay motionless next to him, a hair’s breadth from Javert’s still-clasped hands.  
His chest did not move.  
His face was settled into a slight smile.  
His clothes hung loosely off him.  
Gone was the man whose broad and steady softness Javert could see in memory, gone was the man who loved and loved and asked nothing in return.  
Gone was the man who Javert had feared, hunted, longed for; gone was the man who he could have grown to love.  
Valjean lay still and silent on the bed, and Javert tore his clothes and wept. 

_dortn ist mayn rue plats._

———

_un libstu mikh, mit varer libe_

A hand, reaching for another.  
Two souls on a parapet.  
They step down together.  
The river stills its roiling course.  
The stars reflect on the water.  
There is no one there to see them.

So the moon reflects the sun; so the sun is but a star. 

_to kum tzu mir, mayn guter shats._

A soul as soft and steady as it should have been in life, turning its head from where it knelt in the dirt. A smile lit its face as it wiped away a tear. It stood, and ran. 

_un hayter oyf mayn harts, dos tribe_

And he found his home in the arms of his hunter; he found his joy in the curve of his smile. 

_un makh mir zis mayn rue plats._

**Author's Note:**

> Javert placed a stone on Valjean's grave, the day before he died.


End file.
